


Ain't No Rest For The Wicked

by ezio_westbrook



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Anxiety, Depression, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Disorder, Smoking, Trans!Castiel, Transgender, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, disorder, drug usage, illegal drugs, trans!cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ezio_westbrook/pseuds/ezio_westbrook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a boy. Everyone seems to think he's not. It's not easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't No Rest For The Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE, before you read this - note that in can be VERY TRIGGERING.  
> It's vivid, and _filled_ with angst.  
>  Also, note that I don't know where I'm going to go with this -- I'll plan it later.  
> This is written by a transgender person, so yes, I am speaking from personal experience; so you don't have to bash me.  
> There's a lot of, um...things that will be in this fic. Triggering things.  
> Self harm and drug abuse and things.  
> So if you can't handle it, I strongly advise you to not read it. With love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Castiel cuts his hair for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *updated notes*
> 
> please note before you read this that this contains content that may trigger many out there.  
> warnings contain:  
> -graphic depictions of self-harm  
> -self-hate  
> -drug abuse  
> -overdosage  
> -psychological problems  
> -major depression  
> -alcohol abuse  
> -underage:  
> *sex  
> *drugs  
> *alcohol  
> *prob other stuff idk  
> -body negativity  
> -struggles with identity
> 
> the main reason i'm warning you is because, when I write this, it is me -- an actual transgender male -- venting, pouring my emotions and heart out into each word here.
> 
> so yeah, I intend this to be a sad, fruitful with angst fic.
> 
> please leave kudos & comments. thank you <3

The cold metal of the scissors is surprising at first, against his skin. 

What's even more surprising is the loud _snip_ of the scissors he can so clearly hear when he cuts the first lock of his long, black hair. 

He stares at himself in the mirror, blue eyes cold, the emotions that swirl in them unreadable even to himself. The confined, dimly lit bathroom is painfully quiet - so quiet that he can hear the constant _hum_ that his brain creates in attempt to fill the silence. 

Nobody is home. Nobody has been home for hours. 

_Snip._ He cuts another lock, eyes following the black hair as it falls into the age-stained sink. He glances at the mirror again, staring at the new image for a couple of moments. His blue eyes trace over the freshly cut hair, observing it carefully. 

His curls break easily between the dull blades of the scissors as he makes each cut, and he finds himself swallowing nervously, hands trembling with anxiety. 

He almost regrets what he's doing, aware his mother will be enraged. He manages to convince himself that this is a lunacy, and he never should've even _considered_ committing such an act of idiocy. 

His mind interrupts him when the image of himself flashes before his eyes, an alternate version of him; a tall boy with professionally styled, short hair, a completely flat chest, a strong jaw and confident eyes that shine with genuine happiness, toned, muscular arms, no overly-feminine curves on his hips, and it gives him an almost unbelievable burst of motivation. 

It isn't long before his imagined picture of masculinity begins to take form in the mirror as he cuts his hair, replacing what was his usual feminine appearance. He resists the urge to _sigh_ in relief and begins to make a few adjustments. 

He tries fixing it up; he trims the uneven sides, and cuts it more precisely, until it looks slightly more acceptable. It's still particularly sloppy even after his careful touching-up, but he refuses to think about it, for his mind is one track at the moment; set on the fact that he actually looks like a boy, as he should. 

He glances at the small plastic bag that stares at him from the sharp corner of the ivory countertop. He reaches for it, parting the opening and grabbing handfuls of his hair from the sink, shoving the locks into the bag until there's nothing but a stray strand of hair flying around every now and then. 

He's surprised when he feels hot tear run down his face, and his eyes flicker to the mirror. He wipes the tear away with his palm, taking a deep breath, refusing to allow crying to overtake his body. 

He takes off his shirt, tossing it aside, then he checks to make sure the door is locked. Even though no one is home, and he clearly remembers locking it; he has to check to ease his anxosty. As predicted, the doorknob doesn't turn, telling him it's still locked. 

He turns to the mirror after being assured, looking over his body. 

He has no trouble going to his usual routine of picking out the flaws--at this point it's rather compulsive. His shoulders are narrow, and his arms are pale and thin. He isn't very tall; only about 5'2, which is short for a 9th grader such as himself. 

His eyes settle on his chest. He feels anger fuel his heart to beat faster, as he observes the large sacks of fat that hang of his ribcage, held up by the contraption wrapped around his torso. 

He reaches behind himself carefully, and unclips his bra, sliding it off himself. Carefully, he sets the item of clothing down on top of his discarded shirt, which is haphazardly laid on the farthest corner of the bathroom counter. 

He turns his attention back to the mirror, focusing on his breasts. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches upward and cups them, feeling their warmness against his cold hands. They move easily in his hands, molding and shifting if he massages. 

He turns to the side, letting go of his breasts and looking in the mirror. They sag a little, as average breasts do, but they're large; larger than he'd like. He'd like them _gone._

He holds them up from the bottom with his hands, observing the way they move. He pushes them together, then holds them apart--before shoving them as flat as he can get them. 

He lets them go, wincing as they plop painfully against his ribs. He reaches for the bandages on the counter, carefully beginning to wrap them around his chest. Not too tight, not too loose. Just right. 

He pulls his shirt on over it and observes himself in the mirror. From the front, he looks fine. Looks as he should. Like a boy. 

He turns to the side. His chest curves out slightly, since the bandages don't flatten all that well. But his chest is flat enough. 

He glances in the mirror again, biting his lip as he fights the hot tears that push threateningly at his eyes. 

He tells himself he's fine. He will be fine. He's always been fine. He will always be fine. 

He tells himself he's fine. 

He can't stop the sobs that rattle through him. 

He can't stop the blood that runs from his wrist onto the floor. 

He can't stop the vomit that spills from his lips. 

Why isn't he normal? What does the universe have against him to make him so pathetic? Why did he have to even be _born?_

He tells himself he's fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *updated notes* 
> 
> ahh yis...
> 
> this is my *second* attempt at chapter one of Ain't No Rest for the Wicked.
> 
> ~shout out to my _amazing_ beta, for helping me with practically everything contained in this chapter. you were _so_ amazingly useful for finding the right wording for phrases, and you helped with my righting style so much. I love you, you boob. ╥﹏╥~

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed the first chapter.  
> also, I don't have a beta, so every mistake in this chapter is my own.
> 
> I am, however, in desperate need of a good beta -- go ahead and message me to be one, if you'd like.
> 
> please leave comments/kudos, I'm open to suggestions and criticism.


End file.
